Day of health, day of healing

I finished my treatments for Hodgkin's Disease on September 17, 1999. That was the day I walked out of my last radiation treatment, hands triumphantly over my head, wearing red plaid pajama pants, a black shirt, and a gray hat to cover my still-bald head. I have remembered this day each year, keeping track of how many years I have been cancer-free. It's always been a day of rejoicing for me, sometimes quiet and personal, sometimes more outwardly celebratory, like when I went to the Florida Keys to celebrate 10 years.

Last year on September 17, I had my third biopsy. Cancer had already been detected at "5 o'clock" in my left breast, but there was some atypical hyperplasia at "3 o' clock" that needed a closer look. I was optimistic about this biopsy being on September 17, because to me, that had for 13 years been a day for celebrating health. If there was no cancer there, I would not need a mastectomy, and a lumpectomy would do. I remember when Dr. Skinner called me with the results, at the very end of her workday, and simply said, "It's not cancer..." and I felt so relieved, with renewed faith in September 17.

Six months later, the biopsy I had at "3 o'clock" of my left breast did show cancer, and I did have a mastectomy. That mastectomy showed more, invasive cancer at "6 o'clock," and so I'm planning a second mastectomy in now less than a month.

This year, I spent September 17 at Synod Ministerium, an annual gathering of the Lutheran clergy in Upstate New York. It was a wonderful event, full of beautiful worship, wonderful colleagues, and inspiring learning. Typically, one evening worship service is a healing service; this year, September 17 was the day of that service of healing. The guy who planned and led worship is a friend of mine, and he had asked me to help, and I ended up planning and leading most of that healing service. September 17: day of healing.

The service was simple: we began with the reading from Jeremiah about desiring a "balm in Gilead," then we sang, "There is a balm in Gilead." We head a couple readings, including one from James about activities to do for healing: prayer, anointing, confession, and even singing. Then we offered those activities. We had a couple folks available to hear confessions. We sang songs. We infused the waters that had helped us remember our baptism that morning with Balm of Gilead oil, and people had the chance to pray with one another and anoint each other with the scented water. Then a litany for the sick, a closing song and a blessing, and voila: a healing service!

I invited people to the time of healing with a little sermonette on healing. I hobbled up front and began, "Healing is something I know something about. After two cancer diagnoses in a year, a sprained ankle is the least of my worries." I went on to say I knew others brought their own need for healing, physical and emotional, and probably a fair number brought with them a need for healing in their congregations. I reflected on how I knew we were in this need together also because of our shared baptism, and because Christ tells all of us that his body and blood is given for us. While I trust in these gifts, sometimes I also need these other things James talks about, and thought maybe this bunch of sinners and saints might also need that, and I invited them to participate in the different stations.

I took my place then by the piano, and started off the healing by singing "Taste and See" - I sang the verses and the congregation joined in on the refrain. The song is a paraphrase of Psalm 34, with lines like, "I called the Lord, who answered me," and, "God has been so good to me," and, "In God we will put all our trust." As I sang, I remembered that I had sung this at one of my churches last summer, right around the time I was diagnosed. When I had rehearsed it with the organist, I had grown increasingly emotional. I had a working professional relationship with the organist, herself a breast cancer survivor, but not really a close personal one. But when I completely fell apart singing, "God has been so good to me," crying uncontrollably, she got off the piano bench, came over near me, and I threw my arms around her and sobbed. She let me, and said, "You can't be strong all the time." It was a turning point in our relationship.

Now, as I sang this same beloved tune before all my colleagues, the memory of that afternoon came flooding back. My throat went dry, and my voice cracked a little, but I did manage to keep myself together to the end of the song. As soon as the last note had rung, I bee-lined for the healing station with the Balm of Gilead. We had some kneelers set up, and the person I ended up paired with was Pastor Hans. Hans and I had connected earlier over our shared name. He asked if I knew what it meant, and I'd answered, "God is gracious." He said, "I prefer to say, 'gracious gift of God.'" Now we smiled at each other as we took our place at the kneeler. 

I prayed for him first. Then we swapped. I knelt, and he leaned down where he could hear me. I said, "So, I have surgery next month..." and suddenly I was sobbing. "And I don't want to do it," I squeaked out. Through my tears, I continued to share the burdens of my heart with this gracious gift of God I had only just met a couple days before. I talked about how I just want to be a newly-wed and enjoy a healthy life with my husband, at least for a little while, how I'm tired of him having to take care of me, how I'm tired of everyone having to take care of me. I want to be the strong, self-sufficient person I'm used to being. Spraining my ankle wouldn't be so bad if it weren't just one more reason for everyone to have to accommodate for my weakness. I lamented that this has not only been a physical strain, but much more an emotional strain for me and those who love me. I went on for a while, until we were the last ones still at a station, and the singing had died down to a hum. Then I looked at Hans through my tears and said, "I think that's enough." He prayed for me - I don't remember all the words, but I do remember he prayed that I would remember and feel like my name: a gracious gift from God. 

It was not lost on me that this happened on September 17, a day which had for 13 years been a day for celebrating health, and now was a day for engaging in and celebrating healing. I have been sad to lose my cancer "birthday" (as American Cancer society calls the remission date - the day a new, cancer-free life starts). Now I don't really have one because this has all been so continuous. It almost feels like if I name another day of health, I'll be jinxing it. I was cancer free on September 27 after my lumpectomy, but then April 3 I had cancer again. Now I think I'm cancer free again, but having to have another mastectomy sure doesn't make it feel like it - I'm still being treated, even if it is preventatively. And even when my risk for breast cancer is very, very low, I have felt all along like this has been more of an emotional disease than a physical one, and that healing is still happening; there will be no one cure date for that.

So, no cure date for me. No one day of health. From now on, I'll engage and celebrate instead a day, nay, a life of healing, inside and out. Let it be so, amen.